


Walkabout

by Tanicus



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Feral Behavior, Gen, Hunters & Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12542080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanicus/pseuds/Tanicus
Summary: Beatrice has an animal's heart.Based on tea-leaf-reader's Witch AU and Feral!Beatrice headcanons.





	Walkabout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tea_leaf_reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_leaf_reader/gifts).



> "I have thought about Beatrice, though, and animal witches in general, and kind of have come to the conclusion to deviate from canon a bit by making it so that staying in an animal form for a long while is not a particularity good thing, the humanity begins to go away and completely fades if they're like that for long enough, and that's a little bit of the reason why Beatrice is a touch more feral than the others because she was trapped in the body of a bluebird for a year by a fellow animal witch (who was somewhat off her rocker herself). I mostly have this gruesome mental image of an ass-naked Beatrice ripping the still-beating heart out of a deer and eating it (covered in blood all the while)"  
> -Tea

As any good autumn night should be, the breeze rattled coolly through the dying leaves of the mighty elder trees surrounding the old gristmill, and the full moon hung like a crisp apple in the eyes of the night.

And as the miller’s family slept sound in their beds - their old, uncomfortable, far-too-few-in-quantity beds - there was a stirring in a bedroom upstairs. The eldest daughter tossed and turned, the calming grasp of sleep slipping away from her. In vain, she shut her eyes tighter and tugged the blanket around her bared shoulders. Alas, the feelings of sleep were determined to abandon her, so there in her bed she lay. She rolled over onto her broad back and stared into the ceiling’s dark void.

The night was cool, but as the girl drifted further and further into consciousness, she felt unreasonably hot. The embers of a long-ignored flame stirred beneath the tarp of her pale skin; the freckles about her figure became burn marks. She tugged the blanket off of her and tossed it to the floor in frustration.

A feeling nagged at her, a feeling great and strong as her form. Yet she could not place the emotion or its source. Whatever the feeling was, it called her name repeatedly, _Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatrice_ …

Her nightgown became unbearably tight, and the feeling compelled her to tear it off. She became aware of her muscles rippling beneath the confines of her skin and its thin, uncomfortable covering, and she obeyed.

Sitting up in bed with her long legs hanging over the side, Beatrice turned her head to stare out the open window and into the milky, glowing expanse of the night sky. She stood and padded over to the window. The breeze rattled through the frame and caressed her bare skin, a much kinder touch than the lure of sleep.

The feeling began to call her name louder and with more insistence. A chant rang through the chamber of her skull: _“Beatrice! Beatrice! Beatrice!”_ and at the end, an unexpected word: _“Kill!”_

There was no hint of confusion in her mind, no need to be told twice. She reached around and grabbed her athame from the foot of her bed. Out of the window she climbed, and down the ivy sprawling up the rotting boards of the mill she clambered, until her feet touched the cool dewed grass, and away she ran into the welcoming embrace of the dark forest.

* * *

She ran for some time, knowing exactly what she was running for but not knowing all the same. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped beneath her footfalls, and for a while, she was filled with boundless energy. When she felt herself growing weary, she stabbed her athame into the trunk of a tall tree and hoisted herself up to perch at the top of its branches. And there the great Beatrice sat, her freckled skin bathed in the milk light of moon, the breeze swaying the long, wavy strands of her copper hair. She was a solemn bird of prey overlooking the forest, and her wild eyes scanned the horizon for signs of movement.

In the distance, she caught sight of a clearing in the trees. It was filled with a black grass that shivered like waves in a pond. Beatrice squinted her eyes. A rustling disturbed the peaceful motion. Then, a great many-pronged head rose from the grasses, and the creature stared up at the hawk in her tree, its gaze resembling two stars side-by-side in an ominous far-off expanse of night. Then the thing turned and ran off, but not before sending Beatrice one more inviting look, as if to say, _“Just try and catch me.”_

And in a heartbeat, the feeling within her responded to this challenge.

Beatrice dropped from her branch down, down, down, until her feet hit the ground. She snatched her ritual blade, and her legs carried her away, deeper and deeper into the forest, following the invisible trail of the stag. She ran at a blinding pace, whipping through the trees and tramping the dying underbrush. All the while, the scent and mouth-watering taste of raw venison drove her mad, and drove her onward.

* * *

 

As the moon continued its journey across the sky, Beatrice continued her journey in tracking the deer. She ran all the while, only stopping to check the direction of the wind, and to recapture the creature’s lingering scent. And the absurdity of her situation never once crossed her mind.

Finally, Beatrice had to rest and catch her breath. She sat down at the base of an ancient pine and scratched her head in frustration. That _stupid antlered jerk_ had to be around here _somewhere_.

She held her athame in her hands and looked it over, admiring the curved, polished blade. She angled it ever-so-slightly, and her heart nearly burst from excitement as she saw two bright lights reflected in the metal.

Slowly, she turned her head around and peered behind the tree trunk. The deer approached at a slow pace, appearing to be unaware of her presence. She had somehow outrun the thing. Beatrice wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to punch herself in the head. She did neither, and instead silently slipped up the trunk of the pine, the handle of her athame clamped between her jaws. She crept onto a low-hanging tree branch and sat in wait, the anxious energy of the hunt buzzing within her.

The creature, in its innocence and ignorance of human savagery, stepped into an open space just below Beatrice's tree, with its rump facing towards her. It held its proud head high, the white eyes adorning its skull shining in brilliance. In careless vanity, it dipped down to nibble on the grasses at its hooves.

Beatrice saw her opportunity. She leapt.

At that moment, the forest was set in a state of slow motion. Beatrice, in all her nude, primal glory, fell through the air, arm poised, athame gleaming. The deer lifted its head, ears twitching. It rose up and stood at a massive height, kicking its front legs madly as the blade sank into its haunch and dragged downward with force.

Before it could sprint away, Beatrice wrapped her strong arms around the animal's flank and pulled it back. She pulled it into a bear hug, leaning back and lifting the massive stag off the ground. Huffing, grunting, struggling, hot air and spit filled the atmosphere. Beatrice pulled her blade out of the creature's flank, then stabbed it again, and again, with no calculation or deliberation. Any area of deerskin she could reach, she shoved her point in.

As the once proud stag began to submit to her savagery, its struggling slowed until it hung limp in Beatrice's arms. Blood, hot and inky in the absence of light, oozed from his wounds and smeared all over her skin. She slammed the dying creature to the ground and knelt at its belly. Snatching the blade from a spot where it was stuck firmly in its side, she made no hesitation in slitting open the warm expanse of white fur and skin. She shoved her hands into the creature's guts, and at once, the coldness of the night air clinging to her skin dissipated into visceral heat.

After a bit of digging around, her hands gripped the prime jewel buried deep within the deer's rib cage. Her fingers glided over the glistening cardiac tissue, and the thing throbbed weakly against her palms. She tugged and tugged until it gave way, her arms jerking as the arteries detached from the creature's veins, and it gave one last pathetic cry as she tore the heart from its chest. The entire cavity filled with a pool of blood.

Beatrice gently lifted out the heart and stared at it in fascination as it continued to beat in her hands. Blood spurted from the bastardized arteries and dripped between her fingers. Satisfaction flooded over her, hot as the creature's plasma. An idea entered her mind. It felt almost instinctual. She could not resist the temptation. She brought the heart to her face, its warmth still radiating, its tissues still throbbing, and sank her teeth in. She pulled her head back, jaws clenched on the heart and hands gripping it with intensity, caught in a brutal game of tug-of-war. At last the meat tore, and as she chewed, blood cascaded down her chin and onto her chest. Her face screwed up a bit; the taste was not all that unpleasant, but the tough, rigid texture worked her jaw. Raising the heart above her head, she leaned back and squeezed the organ, and she was drenched in a shower of blood. She rubbed it about her slick body as she continued to feast.

Before Beatrice knew it, a drowsing feeling of fullness settled within her. Thoroughly nourished and worn-out, she curled up on the ground right beside the deer's corpse, and drifted off into sleep. Dreams of the hunt danced about in her mind as the moon traveled further in the sky, the night averting its gaze from the display of bloodshed.

* * *

Beatrice awoke somewhere around midday, confused as to why she was laying on the ground in the middle of the woods, completely naked, with her skin crusted in dried blood. Her grogginess left her as a black mass of flies buzzed around her, and she sat up and swatted them away with annoyance. Her hazy vision lingered around the clearing as she tried to piece together what happened last night. She looked beside her and saw the rotting carcass of a stag, with its glassy white eyes glistening like marbles in an expanse of black fur. The thing’s pink guts, masked by a swarm of flies, splayed out over the ground, and among the mess she saw her curved ritual knife. Yet she still had no recollection at all of what happened. Nausea overtook her all the same, and the flies scattered as vomit splattered over the viscera.

Beatrice stood up and stumbled back in disgust. With some reluctance, she reached down and picked her athame from the pile of gore. She shook it a few times, and the filth dripped from the blade. Not wanting to be near the carcass for a moment longer, she walked away from the clearing and prepared herself for the long journey back through the forest.

After around an hour of walking, the curious sound of someone calling her name drifted into her ears. Her name, coming from what now sounded like the voices of multiple people, echoed through the trees and sent the birds scattering. A flashback from the night before entered her mind, and she saw herself standing in her bedroom staring out the window. The rest then began to flood back: the chase, the hunt, the kill... She shook away the fragments of memory, shut out the sound, and kept on walking.

To Beatrice’s annoyance, the calling grew louder. Growling, she cupped her mouth with her hands, dipped her head back, and shouted to the sky: _“Shut up!”_

The voices stopped at once. After a brief pause, Beatrice heard the sounds of leaves being trampled underneath a barrage of feet. Her heart raced as her fight-or-flight response kicked in. She stood tall, with shoulders broad, gripping the handle of her athame a little tighter as she waited for the threat to be upon her.

What emerged from the trees was no threat, but a group of kids. They arrived one by one; first a dark-skinned girl donned in a blue jacket, then a short, gangly pale boy with tousled hair came up beside her. Next came a girl with long brown hair and a black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and finally, a small younger boy with a coonskin hat atop his head. They all stared at Beatrice’s figure, stupefied, frozen in place. The gangly boy reached over and pushed the cap over the smaller child’s eyes.

Beatrice soon recognized them as some of the other members of her coven; Sara, Wirt, Anna, and Greg, respectively. She made no efforts towards covering herself, and offered them only a blank stare.

“We were, um… Looking for you,” said Sara. “Your family was getting worried.”

“Beatrice, what were you doing out here?” asked Wirt. “Why are you… I mean, why do you have...”

Anna hushed him. “She’s an animal witch, Wirt, this sort of thing is to be expected…”

Beatrice stared at the perturbed crowd, and they stared back at the wild animal before them. How silly society now seemed. They could not hunt or kill. They could not track down prey or eat its still-beating heart. They knew nothing of the chase, or of the thrill of being an animal.

Beatrice gave a hollow laugh at their folly.

Then, the forest grew silent, and all that could be heard was the chirping of birds and the rattling of the autumn wind through dying leaves.


End file.
